


The Adventure of the Speckled Gou’ald

by Hamstermoon



Category: Sherlock (TV), Stargate SG-1
Genre: M/M, Multi, Post Reichenbach, Post Season 2, Post The Ark of Truth
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-03-26
Updated: 2012-05-12
Packaged: 2017-11-02 13:44:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/369633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hamstermoon/pseuds/Hamstermoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three months after Sherlock returns from the dead John Watson is shot and ends up in hospital. The only thing that keeps his sanity while he is recuperating is the breaking news that the long secret Stargate Program, based across the Atlantic under Cheyenne Mountain in Colorado, has gone public. The fact that Sherlock's brother has been involved with the British end of foreign diplomacy with the SGC can only mean he and John will get dragged in at some point. How soon, and how involved, and what that actually means, is a startling revelation for all.</p><p>StarLock ... well; someone had to write it ;-P</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Too familar events

**Author's Note:**

> For magnavox_23, for keeping me sane while I ride out my own Reichenbach.

_There's a storm on the streets, but you still don't run  
Watching and waiting for the rain to come  
And these words wouldn't keep you dry  
Or wipe tears from an open sky  
But I know, but I know, but I know I'm right_

**Silver** (Hurts)

 

It’s about three months after Sherlock Holmes returns from the dead. He and John are just starting to get settled back into their relationship, and the life they live in Baker Street in London. John hasn’t talked much to Sherlock, about what happened, and why it happened, he just knows his lover is safe and that is enough for him. Or so he thinks for now. There will be a need to sort things out, but that will have to come later. The cases that are coming their way since Sherlock’s way since his name was cleared are keeping them occupied on a full time basis. John hardly has any time to blog they are so busy.  
  
Then, in the middle of a very warm March, solving a particularly nasty case of kidnapping, John doesn’t dodge quickly enough. He must be getting old, he thinks, but he ends up getting shot, and ends up in St Mary’s Hospital at Paddington.

  
Molly Hooper, who is helping with the case because there are so many corpses associated with Sherlock’s cases are turning up in her mortuary, volunteers to look after John. She keeps him company while he is treated in Casualty. Then he is settled in his room, a private one off the General Surgical Ward.

  
Presumably this is Mycroft’s doing, Sherlock’s brother seems to know everyone’s every move anyway and is impossible to evade. In this situation his involvement is helpful however. The room overlooks the newly refurbished Paddington Basin. John amuses himself looking out of the window until Molly gets back with a welcome cup of tea. There is the terminus of the Grand Union Canal surrounded by new-build city apartments, pubs and restaurants and of course colourful moored house boats on the water.

  
Over the next hour the room’s occupants are visited by a series of nurses to check John’s drip and redress his leg wound, a doctor on his round just checking up on him, and the head of hospital security asking them to assure Mr Holmes that his team can do their job and to please tell the man from Whitehall to stop bothering him.  John sends Mycroft a text immediately with a smile on his face thinking a stay in hospital just might be worth the older Holmes’ expression when he gets it.

  
Then he and Molly take a deep breath and sit waiting to see who will be the first visitor to John’s bedside. They’ve had enough experience of this already. He doesn’t expect Sherlock this far into a case, but Mrs Hudson is coming back from her sister’s today and he had texted her to tell he what was going on.

 

 

  
A couple of hours even later John is dozing. The warm weather isn’t helping, and the mega pain killers he has been given (enough to knock out a troop of infantry he is sure) are making him drowsy. Molly has found herself a sandwich and has her nose in a copy of Hello Magazine and she seems happy enough to be keeping him company. Then the room door bangs open and a room full of disgruntled New Scotland Yard Detective Inspector arrives. He also brings with him a smell of singed hair and burnt cloth.

  
Greg Lestrade doesn’t look in much better state than the patient in the bed; he has a large bruise to his left cheek, part of his eyebrow is singed off (so might be some of his hair when John gets round to  looking at it) and his right arm is in a sling too. The Yarder sits down heavily in one of the visitor’s chairs with a loud sigh.

  
‘Christ, Greg, what happened?’ John asks when he opens his eyes enough to see what is going on. He can’t sit up, and should be more concerned, but the medication is keeping him under control for the moment. Perhaps that is the reason for it ...

  
‘Bloody white transit van I was driving blew up, mate, that’s what,’ Lestrade replies grumpily, ‘I was lucky to get away with cuts and bruises.’

  
‘What?’ John says incredulously.

  
‘It was a trap, the explosive planted to catch us when the driver changed up into third gear, probably to be used as distraction too. The bastards got away,’ Lestrade says, making a face and stretching against sore muscles, wincing when his shoulder pulls.

  
That is when John’s brain finally catches up with what is going on in the room, and the look on the Inspector’s face which he should have read as soon as he came in the door.

  
‘Where’s Sherlock?’ he asks.

 

 

 

As John wasn’t there to see exactly what happened he fears the worst.  Molly tells him everything will be all right, but he gives her a hard look and then regrets doing it as soon as he has.

  
Poor girl, she was so timid around everyone before. Since she covered for Sherlock’s little ‘magic trick’ Molly has changed. 

 

Since the debacle at Bart’s, the cataclysm in his life only reversed so suddenly when Sherlock returned with no warning, Molly is another woman. John is not sure he still knows her.  

  
Sometimes the events she has been involved in seem to have matured Molly Hooper. Now she stands as an equal to the members of the Sherlock-Holmes-Survival-Club that everyone in the room has become since that day in January.

  
Sometimes, however, the woman looks younger than her years and scared. It’s as if she has only realised the enormity of what she has done and that she wants to run away from it all. This expression reaches her face especially John looks at her, and she is wearing that look again today.

  
‘It’s OK, Molly,’ he assures her, ‘really; you aren’t to blame today and you weren’t before if you remember what I have said.’

  
John can’t be angry.  Molly was an innocent pawn in his lover’s game with Moriarty and in a deadly one at that. There is no way she could have even conceived what Sherlock would have been planning, or what it would have cost her. Dr Watson also has to admit that Molly Hooper’s involvement in making Sherlock look dead saved lives. If he should be angry with anyone in this chaotic mess it is his lover, for handling it all in the way he did.

  
He should be angry with the man who has gone missing again today and who he is desperately wanting to see walk through the door whole and unharmed...

  
‘John, mate,’ Lestrade assures him, ‘Sherlock jumped clear before the explosion which damaged me. He’s probably fine.’

  
John isn’t so sure.  

  
‘Exactly where were you when it happened?’ he asks, feeling something in the pit of his stomach, but medication and the British Stiff Upper Lip he learnt in the Army are keeping his voice steady.

  
‘Crossing Kew Bridge,’ Greg tells him.

  
‘So how do you know my friend didn’t fall into the river and drown?’ John enquires calmly, ‘don’t you think you should be sending in frogmen and dragging the river?’

  
‘I think I’d better be going,’ Molly says getting up, she is looking very uncomfortable now, ‘my cats will be needing to be fed ...’ she offers weakly.

  
She hurries to the door just as it opens again. John and Greg look over to see the British Government walk in. It looks like John’s text to Sherlock’s brother has had an effect after all.

  
Molly blanches, but then pulls herself up to her full height and seems to hold herself together. She gives a tight smile as the man entering holds the door open for her.

 

'Ms Hooper,' he smiles back as she leaves. Immaculate manners, immaculate suit, his umbrella by his side making him look like John Steed from repeats of The Avengers that Channel 4 ran when it first started broadcasting ... Mycroft watches Molly as she disappears hurriedly down the corridor and then turns his attention to the two men left in the room.

  
‘Good evening, John,’ the older Holmes says,’ Inspector, I can take it from here,’ he adds casting his dispassionate gaze over the Yarder, ‘you would be better spending your evening resting, sir. Your energies will be needed again tomorrow as you well know.’

  
‘You’re right, I’m off,’ Greg answers. He can take a hint when he’s not wanted, especially if it’s this man making it. He picks up his singed jacket and puts it back on. ‘Text me if you need anything, John,’ he adds, taking his friend’s hand and squeezing it. ‘My team will keep on the lookout for Sherlock, I promise.’

  
‘Find him,’ John replies, lying back against his pillow, suddenly tired after all this, ‘when you do I may want to kill him myself this time.’

  
Greg grins and makes his way out waving, shutting the door carefully so it doesn’t bang.

  
Mycroft sits down by the bedside with a soft sigh and takes John’s left hand, the one without the drip, in his own immaculately manicured ones. ‘Now, now, John,’ he says patting the hand gently, ‘I really think you need to be resting too. The doctor I spoke with obviously didn’t put as much sedative in that drip as I suggested he do. I think we need to have a talk with him don’t we?’

  
So that was why John was feeling so drugged; he should have guessed. The patient is shaking his head at the whole insanity of what is going on in his hospital room. He gives a yawn; thinking then, perhaps, Mycroft taking control of things isn’t so bad if it helps him not think about Sherlock.

  
‘Who made you my keeper?’ he asks Mycroft, his sight growing dim as his eyes slide shut.

  
‘Well, with my brother not available to do the job I am afraid I have to take over, don’t I, John?’ Mycroft says smiling down at him in that paternal way of his.

  
That is the last thing that John sees before sleep claims him.


	2. On being a patient.

If things were wrong before, they are worse the following morning when John is awoken by the pain in his leg.  The doctor in him is surprised that it hurts this much, it wasn’t such a deep tracked wound and didn’t do much damage on the way in or out, just bled a lot. Then as he wakes further he begins to realise that he also has a terrible thumping headache, that he is sweaty and hot, and that he is starting to be nauseous.

  
‘How are you feeling, John? You don’t look too good, dear,’ the voice of the person sitting in the chair beside the bed says. He turns to see the concerned face of Mrs Hudson. How long has she been there?

  
‘I’m not feeling too good,’ he admits, ‘sorry. I think you better go and call for a nurse.’ That is about all he can get out, swallowing the dryness in his throat.

  
‘That’s exactly what I was thinking,’ Mrs Hudson says and getting up from her chair, patting him on the hand as she does. ‘Just you lie there a moment and don’t worry yourself.’

  
John watches her as she goes off with bustling purposefulness. He can follow her progress through glass window that lets him see from his room into the hospital corridor outside. She makes her way to the nurses’ station at the end of the hallway where there is a white coated doctor talking to one of the staff there.  After a few words are exchanged the doctor finishes his conversation with his colleague comes into John’s room.

  
He is the Indian Doctor, called Raj , John recognises him, he’s the one who settled him into his room last night when he came up from Casualty. Dr Raj even explained he was a fan of John’s blogging.

  
 _‘Glad to know someone reads what I type,’ Dr Watson had said, smiling at the young man, ‘and quite honestly, a little less excitement would be nice for a while. I need a rest.’_

_  
‘Hmm,’ the doctor said nodding and looking sympathetic, ‘well, we’ll do our best to look after you here. No excitement if you don’t want it. ‘_

 

‘And what can I do for our famous blogger today?’ the medic asks as he comes in the room this morning, Mrs Hudson following behind looking worried.

  
The young man can’t be that long out of medical school. The hospital must be making him do all hours at this stage in his career and he looks tired; probably too many overnight and late shifts. John feels sympathy for him remembering his days as a medical student too clearly.

  
‘I’m not feeling too hot I’m afraid,’ John explains, ‘I think my wound might be getting infected.’

  
‘Is that likely?’ the doctor asks.

  
‘I have no idea, I didn’t see where the bullet that hit me came from, or even where it had passed on the way,’ John answers bitterly, ‘but I am definitely feeling as if I am going down with a blood infection.’ That long sentence has cost him a lot, and his head is banging from inside, like his brain is trying make an escape bid.

  
‘Right,’ Raj says, eyes checking John over even as his hand is taking his patient’s pulse. That makes him frown; the hand on John’s hot forehead makes him look more concerned. ‘If a doctor thinks his own wound is infected it’s infected. We better have a look at it,’ he suggests.

  
John nods and starts to pull back the sheets, feeling exhausted at just the slight effort in doing that.  Mrs Hudson is quickly backing out the door.

  
‘I’ll come back later, John dear,’ she says looking concerned but he can see she is trying to be cheerful for him. ‘I am sure this young man will look after you.’

  
‘I am sure he will; bye, Mrs Hudson,’ John calls and then lies back and lets the man in the white coat do what he has to do.

 

 

 

The next 72 hours don’t get any better. John dozes for a while until Greg turns back up after lunch (which he didn’t’ eat, he wasn’t hungry). The inspector says he’s there or a few hours to keep him company, watching the Sunday football on the hospital room’s telly.  The rest of his team can carry on with what they are doing without him while he visits his sick friend in hospital.

  
The Lestrade is looking less dishevelled today, and his arm is no longer in a sling, but he’s being a bit uneasy at still not having found Sherlock yet. John says he understands, his friend will turn up when he wants to and not before. The patient seems to be taking things better today; his friend’s loss is wrapped in the cotton wool of pain killers again.

  
It seems while he was sleeping earlier he’s been put on another drip. The fact that he didn’t wake when this was going on is worrying. He is also now getting nurses injecting doses of antibiotic into the port in his hand at regular intervals

  
John doesn’t take in much of the action on the pitch as he’s feeling quite out of it. Greg is enjoying it though from the shouts and encouragement he is giving his team.

  
 ‘You really don’t look good, mate,’ his friend says looking uncomfortable as the match ends. John opens his eyes again and realises he doesn’t even know the score.

  
 ‘Are you sure you don’t want me to go and come back when you’re better able to talk to me?’ Greg asks.

  
‘Yeah, maybe,’ John responds, and thinks it’s time for a proper nap. ’Sorry,’ he offers.

  
‘God, don’t be,’ Greg responds.

  
John doesn’t see or hear him leave.

 

 

 

Molly is next, tiptoeing into the room after her shift to look in on John. She loses hold of the door as she comes through it; that thing has a vicious spring and it’s had a few victims since John moved in here. Suddenly it bangs shut, which is what wakes John. He blinks sleepily.

  
‘Hi, Molly,’ he says waving from the bed, ‘not really up to conversation today.’

  
‘Are you feeling any better?’ she asks, coming over to the bed,  ‘you don’t look it.’

  
‘The doctors are working on it,’ John assures her.

  
Molly seems to want to ask for forgiveness for her hasty exit yesterday. ‘Sorry for rushing off like that,’ she apologises, she is sitting down on the chair next to the bed and taken John’s hand in hers and is holding on tight.  ‘It’s all been a bit too much with you getting hurt,’ she explains, ‘and only such a small time after Sherlock ...’

  
Suddenly the young woman stops talking, putting her hand over her mouth, realising what she’s said. ‘They haven’t found him yet, have they?’ she asks timidly.

  
‘No, no, not yet,’ John says, too tired for reassurances tonight, ‘they will, he always ends up turning up again, you’ll see.’

 

 

The final act in this drama of wounds and illness is played out rather later that night when Mycroft and his umbrella turn up at the hospital again. The room is dark, the blinds are down, the only  brightness supplied a lamp on the wall above John’s head. The Elder Holmes is standing at the end of this bed of pain appraising at the patient in it with a serious look.

  
‘Your friends have been texting me all day about your medical treatment,’ he declares. He blinks and nods his head as if he agrees with the messages ‘I think I am afraid I am going to have say they are right.’

  
‘Got any bright ideas?’ asks John. He is beginning to be past caring.

  
‘Yes, and I think I might have several god ones in fact,’ Mycroft says turning on his heel, ‘let me go and find you a surgeon.’

  
John watches the man leave, dozes some more and then hears a voice; Sherlock’s brother of course, raised in the corridor. Then there seems to be some action.

  
There is a flurry of white coats and nursing staff, cold swabs of antiseptic, blessed local anaesthetic injected into his leg, and the opening up and cleaning out of his wound.

  
Mycroft stands in the corner of the room, silent, motionless, watching like a hawk.

 _  
Debridement_ John’s fogged doctor’s brain reminds him. That is what he would have done in the field, to a soldier with a gunshot wound. They always opened it up; cleaned the bullet track out, and had a look at what shit the battlefield had brought into the flesh when the bullet entered.

  
After the procedure is finished John is left to sleep, and for once it is untroubled and he gets some peaceful rest.

 

 

  
When he awakes again it is daylight, and the Elder Holmes is still there by his bed. He is holding John’s hand and not looking as if he has moved once in the night.

  
The good news is John actually feels human again this morning. The fogging in his brain has gone, and the pain in his leg feels sharp and alive, as if his would is healing not festering.  

 

There is a jacket over the back of a chair by the window John notices. In deference to the heat in the hospital room (it really _is_ too hot in there) Mycroft is in his shirt sleeves. He is stills wearing his waistcoat, but the expensive cloth of the shirt is folded neatly up his arms. John can see the freckles on the wrist of the hand that is holding his.  

  
So, it is morning again, and he has survived the night. He takes in a deep breath of air and then the man by his bed sees he has woken.

  
‘You look a lot happier,’ Mycroft says turning from his thoughts to smile down at him, ‘how are you feeling this morning?’

  
‘What happened?’ John asks, still not totally sure what _has_ happened, ‘and I do feel a lot better, thanks.’

  
‘The doctors  took swabs of your wound last night when they were cleaning it,’ Mycroft informs him, ‘it seems your attackers actually laced your bullet with some sort of biological agent, John.’

  
Dr Watson is actually amused by that. ‘Slow death by an eco-hazard?’ he says, ‘that’s a new one on me.’

  
Then there is noise in the room again. The door has just been opened and shut carefully (no noisy banging) and someone has just joined them.

 

John instinctually knows who it is (he would know those footsteps anywhere) so just lies there quietly enjoying the certainty. All the horror that has occurred in the past thirty-six hours is over.

  
‘You are wrong about that bullet of course,’ a low familiar voice remarks.

  
‘And why would I be wrong?’ John says looking at the ceiling, asking the room in general.

  
He sees a flash of dark coat out of the corner of his eye as the garment is taken off and laid on the chair by the window. He then he sees Mycroft nod and get up to vacate the chair by the bed too.

 

The Elder Brother stands by the window, a silhouette against the morning light, watching with a pleased expression on its face.

  
‘You are wrong because the bullet was meant for me, not you, you idiot,’ Sherlock says, sitting down taking the John’s hand in his. John looks down to see long elegant fingers threading through his and smiles.

  
‘And I love you too,’ he replies giving the hand a squeeze, ‘what took you so bloody long to get here by the way? You missed all the fun.’

  
‘I was busy as you well know,’ Sherlock replies, ‘and I thought you would be appreciative if I went home and had a shower and changed my clothes before I visited. I spent most of yesterday hiding out in a chicken coop at Kew Gardens,’ he also explains.  
  
‘Only you, Sherlock, only you,’ John says shaking his head, but he is pleased to feel an answering pressure on his hand in reply.  
  
‘And if you two gentlemen don’t mind, I would also like to have a shower and a change of clothing,’ Mycroft says picking up his jacket and putting it on.  
  
‘Go and get some rest brother dear,’ Sherlock tells him with almost a smile, ‘it must have been a long night, and thank you.’

  
'Thank you for returning,' Mycroft says with an inclination of the head. Then he leaves.‘


	3. The Stargate Program

It’s Monday afternoon. John is lying out comfortably on the sofa in the sitting room at 221B having been broken out of St Mary’s Paddington by his support team. There was some arm twisting of the hospital staff by Mycroft, but they are probably glad to be rid of the Holmes brothers. Sherlock was insufferable, rude to the doctors and nurses and had nearly driven one poor (male) medical technician away in tears. The poor young man had only come round to take John’s blood pressure, but Sherlock had still made his time in the hospital room hellish.

  
So John was let go with a box of dressings, a large bottle of antibiotics and the assurance that he will dress his own wound; he is quite capable of that, thank you very much. The request that someone is at home look after him is complied with, and he is made to promise he will rest and let his wound heal properly. He is happy to do that.

  
To while away part of the time this Monday afternoon, and to stop Sherlock driving him totally mad, he asks about the case that is ongoing. He’ll need to know about it if he’s to blog about it later anyway, so catching up on the facts is no bad thing.

  
‘OK,’ says John taking a deep breath and readying himself for a deluge of information, ‘tell me exactly why on earth you spent most of the day before yesterday hiding in a chicken coop in the Botanical Gardens in Richmond.’

  
He and his flatmate were actually there at Kew only a month back, on the request of Mycroft Holmes, and of course with many protests and mutterings from Sherlock. The Elder Brother is a member of the Board of Trustees at the World Heritage Site it seems. He’d been so for many years, having taken the position from one of the many Holmes’ family uncles who, due to advancing age, was no longer able to fulfil his duties.

  
Now, John still has a hard time thinking of Brother Dearest even being interested in gardening or herbaceous borders, but there you go ...  He and Sherlock found themselves visiting Kew as a favour to try and find out, quietly and without getting the press involved, why there had been a sudden, mysterious, spate of arson attacks on buildings in the grounds of the Botanical Gardens.

  
There was no rhyme or reason (or even a pattern) to where or why the fires were started. One had wiped out a potting shed, then there had been the temporary gazebo as part of the Japan Orchid Exhibition held at Kew in February, one of the toilet blocks was incapacitated when two of the stalls in the Gents caught fire, and the final attack (this a lot more serious) had been at staff accommodation, empty at the time because it was being renovated. This was a house, originally inhabited by one of the Victorian keepers of Kew, by the Lion Gate, at the far south east of the gardens.

  
Sherlock was particularly intrigued as the cause of the conflagration was an incendiary material, that to all concerned, was a total mystery. It was certainly flammable, but not anything he (or John, or the Fire Service investigators who had been called out to the incident) had ever seen before. Mycroft had kept things under wraps for everyone very well on that one.

  
A month later, Sherlock is still running tests on samples of it in the kitchen table laboratory at Baker Street, and things are still coming up inconclusive. Now his flatmate’s investigations are centred on incidents at Kew Gardens again, and John wonders if this incident is linked in any way with the last.

  
‘Isn’t it obvious that needed to find somewhere to keep myself hidden until after the gardens had closed?’ his boyfriend says to John’s question about his hiding place, ‘I also wanted to be near the site I was trying to keep under surveillance, John.’

  
Of course he was ... Sherlock wouldn’t have done anything without reason, he is incapable of that.

  
‘And were you keeping an eye on, where?’ John asks taking a sip of the tea he has just been brought.

He knows there are a number of locations of interest in that part of Kew; the two galleries of Botanical Art, a restaurant, and of course the huge Victorian glass house full of exotic plants which is usually the main attraction.  The Chinese Pagoda and the Japanese Kushi-Mon Garden are just over the way from the Lion Gate, but in the middle of a lot of grass and trees and they have nothing else near them. Sherlock could just have sat in a nearby bush if he wanted to keep an eye-out there.

  
‘John, you see but you don’t think!’ Sherlock answers, in a voice that says John is being extremely dense, and should have been able to work it out himself without being told. ‘I wanted to be able to observe Temperate House, you know why too. It‘s the only place in that part of the gardens where there is underground storage where our hostage could be have been brought to.’

  
‘You worked that out?’ John says, he shouldn’t be so surprised, ‘how on earth ...’

  
‘Kew Gardens is a very ancient institution,’ Sherlock says, ‘but most of the infrastructure and buildings were constructed post 1840 when it was adopted as a National Botanic Garden. That was when most of the walls and entrances were installed; the locks on the older gates also date from that period. When we visited to investigate the fires it seemed strange to me that only certain ones should have been changed recently. That should tell you enough to understand where I picked up my lead.’

  
John frowns. ‘No, I’m sorry, I’ve lost you there,’ he says.

  
His flatmate sighs and closes his eyes as if really disappointed with John. ‘Surely you haven’t forgotten our conversation with the staff member you persuaded to chat to us?’ he says impatiently, ‘Bill, or Ben, or whatever his name was, the one on the tree surgery gang working nearby. He said was very odd how only the week before lock on the Lion Gate had had to be replaced, the gate actually next to the burnt out staff accommodation,’ Sherlock points out. ‘Well, the day before yesterday I found another had been changed too, and one to a very specific lock, the door of the Temperate House nearest to the stairs down to the boiler room.’

  
John gets what Sherlock is saying now. ‘So you think the fires and the kidnapping are linked?’ he asks, ‘someone changed the locks so they could get access to the grounds when the gardens shut in the evening perhaps? It is very lonely up near the Lion Gate; no-one would notice people moving around there after hours.’

  
‘You could be right,’ his flatmate responds, ‘it is intriguing, and I need more data. At least our kidnapped the heiress has been returned to her family, and Lestrade and his team can keep the gardens under surveillance.’ Sherlock looks content at the outcome so far, and patient enough to wait for further developments in the case.'

 

There is more going on however, John is sure of it. ‘Out with it,’ he says, tipping his head and looking at his boyfriend, ‘what else is there that I don’t know about?’

  
Sherlock smiles; ‘that’s my blogger,’ he says, ‘and you are right, there is something else odd about this case, and not just the strange incendiary material used on the fires.’

  
‘Oh?’ John asks, ‘go on, you can’t keep me in suspense.’

  
 ‘All right, ‘Sherlock replies, ‘I can’t swear by what I saw, the sun was right in my eyes by the time the Yarders arrived, and the vegetation in the Temperate House does cast shadows in odd directions ...’

  
John is getting impatient now. ‘And?’ he prods.

  
‘I think I saw one of the team from the Temperate House behave oddly, their eyes light up and flash,’ Sherlock says with a shrug, ‘I am probably wrong; as I said, I had spent all night awake in a confined and space sharing it with chickens, so I am sure it had affected my reasoning.’

  
‘Maybe not,’ says John remembering what had happened inside Baskerville.

 

 

 

The next few days are quiet at 221B. Sherlock is in and out, helping Lestrade on another, unrelated case, but the patient, napping and healing on the sofa, does not lack looking after.

  
‘I’m off out, John,’ Sherlock often calls, hurriedly putting on his coat and heading down the stairs out their flat, ‘I’ll ask Mrs Hudson to come and check on you.’

  
Of course John expects Sherlock’s brother to turn up now and again but he also gets visits from Greg, Molly, Mike Stamford, and even, rather bizarrely, one day from Sally Donovan.  This is when John realises that although Sherlock is not actually physically present and with him all the time, in his own bizarre way his flatmate is doing his best to take care of him.

  
‘What on earth are you doing here?’ John asks as the Police sergeant walks up the stairs carrying a takeaway bag. There is a tray of sushi in it from Wasabi; John is pleased by that, he much prefers it to the stuff Yo-Sushi sells, their rice isn’t as good.

  
‘The Freak is working with us near Liverpool Street,’ Sally offers grumpily, ‘says to tell you he’ll be late and that you shouldn’t worry and that he’s sent you supper.’

  
‘Thanks,’ says John accepting the food, ‘you didn’t come all the way over here just to deliver that did you?’

  
Sally looks embarrassed, and then covers it with one of her sneers. John was surprised how he and Sherlock have been able to work so reasonably with the Sergeant since his flatmate’s return. He knows it wasn’t Sally’s fault that she had to play a part in Sherlock’s choreographed downfall, but still, she did play that part.

  
‘I’m not your boyfriend’s runner,’ the Sergeant says with a sour face, which John thinks she is putting on, as he is sure he can read other emotions underneath it.  ‘We have a suspect in Paddington Green I need to speak to,’ she says, ‘the Inspector was going to send a car over here with your food but I offered to bring it.’

  
John nods. So Lestrade is in on this too; and perhaps Sally is feeling a bit bad for what happened before and is trying to make amends in her own way. If she can do that so can he.

  
‘Well, thanks,’ John says, ‘do you have to hurry off or can I make you a cup of tea?’

  
Sally looks surprised. ‘If you like, yeah, been on my feet all day and only had a break for a Starbucks at lunch.’

  
‘Right,’ John nods, ‘you take a seat. It’ll do me good to get up and walk round the flat. I need to exercise my leg.’

 

 

 

The other thing that keeps John sane in his days of incarceration at the flat Baker Street is the news currently breaking on the BBC News Channel. It is in fact breaking on every news bulletin he can get on their digital telly; ITN, Channel 4 and Channel 5, Sky News, Al Jazeera the English speaking Arabic Channel, RT in Moscow ...

  
The list goes on when John checks on the internet and picks up clips from Channel 7 in Australia and CBS News in the States.

 

This thing has broken worldwide.  
The story is about the Stargate Program. This is something that really sounds as if it is out of a science fiction story and he has to check he calendar to make sure it’s not April the First.

 

The facts include a wormhole in space, and access gates on Earth, allowing SG teams to visit friendly and not so friendly alien planets. The America Air Force (and a few allies including the British, Russians, French and Chinese) have known this for a good few years. Now the rest of the world is hearing the news, and everyone is talking about it.

  
At the moment there are military Top Brass being interviewed on different news channels round the globe. In America on CNN it’s someone called Hank Landry, the two star Air Force General, who is presently in charge of the Stargate Program, and is saying his piece. Australia and Channel 7 has a three star American Air Force General called Jack O’Neill. In Russia it’s a female General Daria Voronkova who oddly enough reminds John of Deana Troi from watching Star Trek.  The General looks, and speaks, very similarily to the character from The Next Generation. In Britain they have a familiar old favourite, the retired Brigadier Sir Alistair Gordon Lethbridge-Stewart. The British forces always roll him out when they need a media friendly face to represent them.

  
John is still watching the telly when Mycroft, his umbrella and his briefcase, turn up for a visit. The Elder Holmes, sitting down with a cup of tea and one of Mrs Hudson’s biscuits, asks after the patient’s health and looks amused to see his interest in the news stories.

  
‘I’m pleased to see you are not showing the same distain my little brother had when he heard about this,’ he says smiling.

  
‘What did he say about it?’ John asks, already having an idea about what his flatmate might have said.

  
‘I tried to get him to help to occupy him,  he was waiting for the right time to come back to you and return to Baker Street and was getting very distracting to live with,’ Mycroft replies. ‘Sherlock was very dismissive; he said his field of work was purely on Earth and mostly in London. He also added he didn’t want to get involved with anything which gave alien abduction theorists any more ammunition for their idiotic arguments than they already had.’

  
John laughs at this, but what Mycroft says gives him pause to think. ‘Sherlock knew about this before the news broke?’ John asks, and then putting the pieces together, ‘I might have known you were involved with it too.’

  
Sherlock’s brother gives him that inclination of his head and paternal smile of his. It’s the one which is a nicer version of his flatmate’s remarks, telling him how he should pay more attention to detail. ‘Of course, John, unfortunately my responsibilities continue to expand now we are talking to other planets as well as other countries,’ Mycroft says. ‘There is always negotiation and diplomacy involved at times such as this. Who else but the British Secret Service would be the best to handle that?’

  
Mycroft also has a present for John. ‘Here,’ he says, taking a thick paperback out of his briefcase, ‘as you are so interested in watching the news, you might also fancy reading a little about it too.’

  
John takes the book and looks it over, taking in the image of author on the back. George Hammond is shown in the uniform of a three star Air Force General, but he also looks human, kind and grandfatherly. Just the sort of person John would like to meet.

  
‘The book is an uncorrected proof of the official history of the Stargate Programme,’ Mycroft informs him, ‘it’ll be on sale in Waterstones, and available as a Kindle E-book, in about a month. General Hammond is coming over from Colorado in a week or so to promote it. I’ll try and bring him over to speak to you if you would like.’

  
‘I wouldn’t mind that,’ John offers.

  
‘Good,’ Mycroft says, looking pleased.

 

 

The following week John is actually up and about, carefully walking down the seventeen steps between the flat and the front door at Baker Street. His healing wound means he’ll not be running after Sherlock and solving any cases just yet, but it is a relief to get out into the fresh air.

  
He goes out for a drink with Greg and eats sandwiches in the sun with Molly in Regent’s Park. He even manages with careful walking, and support with his stick, to make a daily outing to Tesco Express on the other side of Euston Road for bread and milk.  

  
The area is full of tour buses, and tourists changing Tube trains at Baker Street Station or visiting Madame Tussauds. The wax modellers want to place a copy of Sherlock Holmes here which makes John giggle a bit. It’s all been since his miraculous return from the dead, and the articles all over the papers. His flat mate has been entirely rude in response to that request, and John sort of agrees with him. It would be creepy and nothing else.

  
Then at the end of the week, and five chapters into the thick tome of the history of the Stargate Program, John gets a visitor. It is in fact two visitors, Mycroft, on his weekly drop-in to see how John is and how his leg is recovering, and accompanied this time by an American three star Air Force General. The man is older, rotund, extremely bald and in full dress uniform. John recognises him from the photo on the back of the book he is reading. There are also several Secret Service minders in tow.

  
‘I totally apologise, John, I hope you don’t mind me bringing General Hammond to visit,’ Mycroft says .His demeanour all smooth and polite, but John can see that he is not sorry at all. ‘We’ve just come from the ITN News Centre on the South Bank, ‘ he explains, ‘and George is due on the World at One on Radio Four at Broadcasting House in about an hour.’

  
‘There’s a big pile up on somewhere called Oxford Street apparently,’ the visitor says, amiably, talking with a Southern American drawl, ‘so the traffic is all backed up and we need somewhere to wait. I hope we aren’t intruding,’ he adds.

  
‘Of course not, sir,’ John says. Old habits are making him rise from his chair, where he has been sitting reading, and almost standing to attention.

  
The General smiles, seeing John’s military bearing, and either working out all the rest, or already knowing, having been told in the way there by Mycroft.  ‘At ease, son,’ he says, ‘we’re all friends here, and please, call me George. I’ve had enough formalities these last couple of days to last me a long time.’

  
John nods and relaxes a little. ‘Ok then, George, do please make yourself comfortable, and would you perhaps like a cup of tea?’ he suggests. ‘Mrs Hudson our landlady has just brought up a fresh batch of scones and a pot of her sister’s jam.’

  
‘Oh, wonderful,’ Mycroft says, sitting down in Sherlock’s chair, ‘Mrs Hudson always makes the best scones.’

  
‘Yes, that would be good,’ the General agrees, ‘I’m all tuckered out having been up since six this morning to do your breakfast television and I’m not such as young a man as I used to be.’

  
He sits down on the sofa with a sigh, putting his cap, which he has had under his arm, on the seat beside him. John is heading to the kitchen, wondering if Sherlock’s brother communicated ahead to Baker Street about the General visiting. Mrs Hudson’s offering arrived right on cue, but then Mycroft couldn’t have foretold the bus crash on Oxford Street though, could he?

 

 

 

After half an hour of exchanging pleasantries, with John explaining about his time in the forces in Afghanistan, and George talking about his granddaughters and how he wants to bring then to England on vacation this year,  Mycroft and his guest get up to go. Then John thinks of a question he wants to ask author George Hammond, about something he has read in his book, and that might have an impact the Kew Garden case Sherlock is still investigating.

  
‘General,’ he says, ‘I’m enjoying your book and I’ve just reached the chapter about the Gou’ald and I want to ask you something about them?’

  
‘Yes, John,’ George responds, pausing and looking at him, ‘what can I help you with?’

  
‘Well, to me they sound pretty much like a clichéd science fiction villain,’ John offers, ‘over here we’d call them Pantomime villains – overdressed and with outrageous behaviour, you know what I’m talking about. They can’t be real, haven’t you exaggerated them a little for the audience of your book?’

  
George Hammond has obviously been asked this question before and he seems ready for it. ‘Oh I can say, certainly, that what I have written is exactly as we found them, son,’ he says with a smile, ‘I have I’ve met enough of those sons of bitches to know what I am talking about. Even had some of my teams taken over by a snake or two, that’s nothing you ever want to experience.’

  
‘Really?’ John asks, looking interested, ‘and do their eyes really glow?’

  
George nods in response. ‘They do, son, they do,’ he says.

  
‘And now the General and I must get on our way,’ Mycroft says, interrupting his fascinating discussion, ‘and thank you for your hospitality, John.'

 

John can see that the Elder Holmes is giving him a look, the one that says that he, John Watson, is not as dim as Sherlock would like to let everyone else believe.

  
‘Well, thank you for visiting, and it’s nice to have met you,’ John says extending his hand to the General. It’s too hard not to salute, so he snaps to attention and does so.

  
George Hammond smiles, puts on his cap, straightens up and returns the salute, every inch the American Air Force General he is. Then the Secret Service heavies are opening the door at the bottom of the stairs and John’s visitors are leaving.


	4. A Gou’ald at large in London

When John comes back from a trip to Tesco, late on Saturday afternoon a week later, the last thing he thinks he will have on his mind is the Stargate Program.

  
He’s down to the last chapter in the book Mycroft brought him, and things have quietened down a bit on the news channels. It’s back to international politics, and union strikes, and the ongoing war in Afghanistan. The boring, mundane world that is Earth has returned quickly to its old self.

  
The actual news on John’s mind at the moment is the state of his leg.  It’s healing well, and feeling better daily thanks to the exercises he has been given by the physiotherapist at St Mary’s. He’ll be using his stick for a while longer, but the day before he and Sherlock went out on a case, and although there was no running around, or jumping across roofs, he was able to limp along and be of some use.

  
Now he makes his way carefully up the stairs to 221B, stick in one hand and Tesco bag in the other, and comes face to face with the Holmes brothers. They are standing in the middle of the living room glaring at each other. Sherlock still has his coat on; John presumes Mycroft has caught his younger brother either on the way out to, or coming back from, a case. If things are really bad then Sherlock might even have actually been summoned home by brother dearest.

  
John sighs and goes to the kitchen to put away the groceries, and to put a pot of tea on. This could be a long afternoon. He’s also listening to the argument to try and work out what it’s about. The brothers are perfectly capable of bickering away about absolutely nothing, but for once it does seem to be of some import.

  
John listens for another few moments, hearing Sherlock voicing his annoyance at being summoned home, and then taking a deep breath steps into the fray.

  
‘Boys!’ he calls, ‘I think this could all be handled a little more easily if you just relaxed and talked it out over a cup of tea.’

  
Sherlock just gives John a disgusted look and throws himself down untidily into his chair.

  
‘Really, John,’ he says, ‘how can you take this all so calmly? I will not have my brother treat me like a recalcitrant child. Sending a car for me to a crime scene, and dragging me away from my work, in front of the Yarders, is an extremely offensive action in indeed.’

  
‘Brother Dearest,’ Mycroft responds with a look.  He is still on his feet and actually appearing to be rather hurt by his brother's words. ‘While I am happy to leave you to your little preoccupations under normal circumstances,’ he offers, ‘this does happen to be a situation of National Emergency.’

  
‘A Gou’ald at large in London does seem to be a bit not good,’ John offers conversationally as he goes to pour tea and bring cups of it to the two brothers.

  
‘Thank you, John,’ Mycroft says sitting down on the sofa with a sigh, ‘you are always so civilised. Were it not for you moving into this flat I am sure my brother would have devolved into a wild beast by now.’

  
‘I am not denying having an alien hostile in our city is a problem ,’ Sherlock tells his brother, ‘but it’s not my job to go tracking down non-compliant extra terrestrials for you. I told you this when the Stargate Programme was first brought to public attention. I want nothing to do with it and if it's something that needs sorting out you must use your own resources. I am sure there are more than enough people on your staff who are quite capable of the task.’

  
‘The Americans _are_ sending two of their best people to help us out,’ Mycroft interrupts with a dip of his head.

  
‘In that case, brother dearest,’ Sherlock asks, ’why are John and I actually needed?’.

  
‘I had thought some local knowledge might be of help to them,’ Mycroft explains with a shrug, ‘and we can’t have members of the American Air Force running all over London without someone to keep an eye on them, can we?’

  
‘So we are in effect just required to babysit your visitors?’ Sherlock says, disdain clearly evident in his face. ‘That really is stooping to the lowest level, brother dearest.’

  
‘I don’t know,’ John says brightly, finally picking up his tea, joining in the conversation and sitting down on the sofa beside Mycroft. ‘It’s a while since I've worked with any forces personnel from other countries, and it might be quite fun.’

  
‘Thank you for at least showing some enthusiasm, John,’ the Elder Holmes replies with some relief.

  
‘That’s all right,’ he smiles, ‘you'll have to help me on this though. What I don’t get  is the book I’ve almost finished about the Stargate Programme claims that the Gou’ald are a dead race,’ he explains. ‘Stargate Command and its intergalactic allies apparently spent ten years bringing them to heel and wiping them out.’

  
‘It is an _official_ history, John,’ Mycroft informs him, ‘there always has to be some omission of the facts when the general public are given access to Government Secrets.’

  
‘And apparently, even when dealing with aliens, there are also always persistent characters that are determined not be eradicated too,’ Sherlock offers looking slightly amused, ‘that reminds me of someone.’

  
‘Right,’ says John, starting to get his head round things a little, but not really wanting to follow Sherlock’s train of thought. Things are a little too recent, and too raw, to be joking about them just yet. He tries to keep the conversation on track. 

 

‘So who exactly IS this stubborn Gou’ald? Does he or she have a name? It would be nice to know the identity of the alien we are going to follow questing Americans all over London to look for,’ he offers

  
‘Yes, Mycroft, if we are going to be involved in your little schemes we need more information,’ Sherlock agrees taking a gulp from his mug of tea.

  
The Elder Brother nods sagely in response. ‘Very well, Sherlock, apparently his name is Ba’al,’ Mycroft informs the two men, ‘and, John,’ he says looking at the man sitting on the sofa beside him, ‘you’ll have to suspend your disbelief for a little while I explain this next bit, if you please.’

  
‘All right,’ John blinks at that comment, but then swallows, and nods, ‘consider it done, go on.’

  
‘Good,’ says Mycroft,’ Ba’al has apparently both cloned himself and by doing that also infiltrated various international business organisations on Earth.’

  
The Elder Holmes is watching both his brother and John to see how they react to his words.

  
‘I beg our pardon?’ John says looking a little incredulous.

 

‘It’s true, I promise you,’ Mycroft’s face is mild and not showing any emotion, just passing on the facts as they are. ‘Our friends in America dealt with one of the clones on their own home soil a few years ago,’ he explains, ‘the Chinese found they had one in their Communist Party last year ...’

 

‘And we in the UK we now have our very own Gou’ald in London, presumably having set up shop in the City’s financial district,’ Sherlock says.

 

John is relieved to see his flatmate is laughing now, not with scorn of derision, but actually amused at the story being told

 

‘Exactly,’ Mycroft agrees looking pleased that he seems to have won his brother over.

  
 ‘I think your story has convinced me of our need to participate in this   alien snake-hunt, brother dearest,’ Sherlock says, ‘when do our allies arrive to help us find him?’

  
Mycroft checks his phone and then looks at his watch. ‘Oh, I think they will be with us presently,’ he says, ‘I received a text about half an hour ago to say that our visitors were put in a taxi at RAF Northolt.’

  
John looks at his watch too. ‘Only time enough to put the kettle on and make another pot of tea,’ he says cheerfully, ‘I wonder if we have any of Mrs Hudson’s biscuits left?’  
  


 

 

They do actually have to wait a while longer for the members of SG1 to arrive on Baker Street, but eventually there is a cab drawing up outside 221B. Both Sherlock and John are standing at the window of their living room, standing shoulder to shoulder, staring down like school boys. The waiting to get the first view of whoever has been sent to work with them is killing the flatmates.

  
Mycroft sits on the sofa looking both amused and pleased that he has his brother and John back on side. This hopefully should all go smoothly, and to plan, if everyone does what they need to do properly.

  
The first person out of the cab, struggling with both a small wheeled case and a rucksack, is a woman. She has long dark hair, is wearing blue jeans and a bright pink hoodie, and her t-shirt has a bright screen printed flower on it. Sherlock looks surprised.

  
‘Interesting,’ he says.

  
The only other person to get out of the cab is male. He also is in jeans but his are black, and he wears a grey t-shirt with a black leather jacket over it. He is also wearing glasses and his left arm is in a bright blue fibreglass cast.  He’s in possession of a wheeled case and has a laptop case slung over his shoulder.

  
‘Well, well, I know who that is,’ John offers, sounding impressed.

  
‘And?’ Sherlock asks, ‘perhaps you’d care to share your prior knowledge with us, John.'

  
‘That’s Dr Daniel Jackson,’ John responds, I recognise him from the photos in the official history I was reading. We really are getting the big guns,’ he adds in awe. ‘Dr Jackson is an original member of SG1 and the person who opened the Stargate.’

  
John hears his boyfriend go _humph_ but then Sherlock is able to add further details to the finding out about their visitors.  ‘Looks like he and his female companion have just come back from a mission too,’ he offers.

  
‘Sherlock!’ John says, irritated, ‘how on earth have you worked that one out?’

  
Sherlock has a smile on his face, as if he is enjoying this, finally.  ‘I’m surprised you didn’t pick it up, with your dedicated news report watching, John. Didn’t you notice anything missing?’ he asks.

  
‘No?’ says John, but he is sure Sherlock will tell him, so he just waits for the deductions to start.

  
‘I didn’t watch as much 24 hour news as you did,’ his flat mate tells him with a smile, ‘but I did notice something about the people being interviewed. There were several Generals, quite a few personnel working at the SGC and a lot of team members from different team numbers interviewed. There was, however, never anyone actually from the current SG1 seen on our screens,’ he says.

  
‘Now, why didn’t I spot that?’ John asks annoyed.

  
‘Don’t worry youself, John,’ Mycroft smiles from the sofa, ‘my little brother always likes to show off, as you are well accustomed to by now. And what else can you tell me about our guests?’ he asks Sherlock.

  
‘That they are married and a couple. That the mission ended about three weeks ago,’ Sherlock says, watching the woman by the taxi struggling to sort out the British coinage in her hand to pay off the driver. ’Dr Jackson has a cut on his face which looks to have been quite deep but has healed well. It probably had stitches or butterfly clips. His arm is also in a fibreglass cast, and those are not usually put on a broken bone until the swelling caused by the initial break has subsided.

  
‘Bravo,’ Mycroft applauds regally. ‘What I can also add to your brilliant deductions is that our heroes here have just returned from on mop-up mission on a planet called Celestis,’ he offers, ‘travel back from that by space transport takes about a week and a half. Dr Jackson and Vala Mal Doran have been being debriefed at the SGC since then.’

  
‘There you are, John,’ says Sherlock smiling, ‘simple when you know how.’

  
John is feeling a bit annoyed at his boyfriend’s smugness, feels like giving him a quick thump, but then the doorbell downstairs rings.

  
‘I’ll get it, dearies,’ they hear Mrs Hudson call from downstairs, then there are two sets of feet claiming the seventeen steps up to 221B and the visitors have arrived.


	5. A simple task

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A change of POV here ... For this chapter we are observing the events via one of our American visitors.

While Vala and Sherlock go on ahead, walking at a slower pace with Dr Watson, because the British ex-army doctor is handicapped by his wounded leg, isn’t such a problem for Dr Daniel Jackson.

  
There is no Jaffa army to avoid here, no Ori Priors to hide from, just an office building to break into and a rogue Gou’ald clone to find intel on. It’s a change from what he has been doing recently but Daniel is pleased for the change. He needs a rest after Celestis.

  
There is no real need to be rushing about running from dangers in the City of London on a Saturday night. It’s still light as it’s a summer evening, and there are only a few people walking down the street as they pass by; just normal Londoners going about their normal out-of-hours business, off for a pint at a British pub to meet their friends.

  
The instructions from both the SGC and Mycroft Holmes, on the UK side of the operation, for tonight are very explicit; no getting the British helpers involved beyond information collecting. Once the target is located MI6 will send in their own operatives to neutralise the Gou’ald. This is British soil so it is a local military and intelligence operation. Once Ba’al is captured, and interrogated, he will be handed over to the Americans.

  
Daniel has worked with a few British Forces personnel over his time with the SGC and he is pleased they have John Watson with them tonight. Even though the ex-army Captain has been in civilian life for a few years it is quite obvious where he got his attitude and bearing. This part of the operation may be purely for gathering intel, and try to find out exactly what Ba’al has been up to this time, but it’s reassuring to know they have a trained person as support.

  
‘Come on, we better try and catch up,’ Dr Watson says and starts hopping along on his bad leg faster, ‘if we lose Sherlock we’re in trouble.’

  
‘Vala will keep an eye on him, John,’ Daniel assures.

  
His wife is walking a little ways in front with Sherlock Holmes and is she gesticulating as she speaks. The detective is silent for once and looks both wary and irritated.

Daniel is not quite sure what to make of this Englishman himself. He can understand John Watson (quiet, calm, military) but there is a definite air of theatricality about Sherlock that he is not quite used to. He knows people this side of the Atlantic can also be called ‘eccentric’ (even he himself had the ‘preppy’ label at the SGC) but this goes a little further than that. Daniel is almost reminded of the Ancient who ended up in his head a while back. With his long flowing coat, grandiose attitude to people (and even grander sweeping arcs of gesticulation) Sherlock Holmes has a lot of similarities with Merlin.

  
Up ahead it seems Vala’s incessant chatter hasn’t broken through to him. Daniel watches as she stops and turns to the detective, has her hands on her hips and her husband knows what is coming next.

  
‘Are you like this with all women, darling?’ she asks tipping her head. Daniel can see she has that look in her eye, the one she had when she ambushed him the day after he was released from the infirmary on the Odyssey and dragged him into her quarters and into bed. They had fought about it, and Daniel had tried to deny everything, but Vala had been right.

  
As she said, it was something they should have done a long time ago, but only now could they see the time was right. Once Daniel had let enough steam off his eyes were cleared to see the real love that was residing there in the woman’s heart. She wasn’t joking, or teasing him, or trying to hurt him, and he was able to respond in return to her overture properly too.

  
They had been dating, and circling around each other, on and off for two and a half years now, give or take his abduction on the Prometheus. So the time was right to finish what they started, bring it to a proper conclusion, and formalise the relationship by getting married. It was arranged the following day with the captain of the ship, with Sam and Teal’c and Mitchell in attendance, and Jack watching by video link, getting very emotional indeed.

  
Now, here in London, Vala has seen something in their British detective colleague and she obviously feels it needs some attention before they go Gou’ald hunting. Trust her to cut right to the heart of the matter. Daniel just takes a deep breath and watches what is going to happen. He’s learnt to trust his new wife’s hunches and she is probably onto something important here.

 

  
‘So,’ says Vala, giving Sherlock the eye, ‘is it all women in particular, just me, or do you have a problem we need to talk about Mr Holmes?’

  
‘No, no, of course not,’ the Consulting Detective is saying, trying to look stern, or imperious, or whatever it is he does, but Daniel can see he is uncomfortable. The Englishman normally talks with his hands but they have gone into his pockets, and he is showing how uncertain he is in the set of his shoulders. Vala shakes her head, about to make one of those brilliant jumps of comprehension that only she, as a woman, can make.

  
‘Well,’ she says, ‘I don’t know who she was, or what she did to you, sweetie, for that matter,’ She appraises the Englishman with eyes as inquisitive and as his own and nods her head, ‘but I’m not her,’ she offers. ‘Daniel will tell you that, I’m very certainly me. Now, I’m here to try and work with you, darling, so you better take some comfort in that, and let’s get on.’

  
There is someone else keeping an eye on the conversation going on in this street in the ancient City of London. Daniel sees John observing how his flatmate is handling all this. He also doesn’t miss the look of sympathy the smaller Englishman gives when Sherlock glances over at John. What is Sherlock  seeking? Support, comfort, confirmation of something?

  
John nods and Sherlock bows his head in reply, but he is looking less tense now. His shoulders relax and he takes a breath of air into his lungs.

  
‘Well then, Ms Mal Doran,’ he says looking appraisingly at Vala, his composure regained, at least for the moment,  ‘what will happen tonight still remains to be seen. I just hope you are as good as you are saying you are.’

  
‘Oh I am, darling,’ she replies with a smile, ‘you’re going to need my help with the computer. If they were set up by a Gou’ald no one who doesn’t know their methods will be able to break the code.’

  
They have reached the front door of a modern glass building set in the old offices in the City of London street.

  
‘In that case I may indeed need your assistance,’ Sherlock acquiesces and steps aside like a gentleman to let her through. Vala smiles and goes first.

 

  
From now on things return to something more normal or as near as Daniel sees it anyway in this sort of situation. He’s seen members of his team talking their way into more than enough buildings, offices and organizations on and off world and is interested to see how the English handle this sort of thing.  He is not disappointed.

  
As Sherlock goes up to the security guard on the desk his demeanour changes completely. He is suddenly all jaunty and full of smiles. It would be amusing if Daniel had not witnessed the conversation between him and Vala moments ago. Looks like this man is a bit of character actor ...

  
‘I Good evening, sir, I  believe you are expecting us,’ he says cheerfully to the bored looking security guy at the desk, ‘we are the operatives from Computer Express Mr Ba’al asked to come and take a look at his computer.’

  
Man checks at his screen and then glances back up nodding; it looks like Sherlock’s brother, or MI6, or whoever is running this operation, has managed to hack thus far into the system.

  
‘Yes, mate’ he says, ‘good of you to come out on a Saturday night; do you need me to take you to the office?’

  
‘No, thank you,’ Sherlock smiles, ‘we were given very precise instructions as to where the machine in question was.’

  
‘Ok then,' the guy says, ‘here’s a pass card and I knock off at eleven when the night shift from another security firm comes in. You’ll be done by then?’

  
‘I am sure we will,’ Sherlock says with a smile that is, obviously, from where Daniel is standing, is hiding a smirk. He pockets the card and the group of four people move off.

  
They walk calmly through the security gates as the guard lets them through, and then on to the elevator, not giving anything away.

  
Just a tech team going to their job, nothing strange to see here.

  
Once they reach floor four however there is more urgency. Vala and Sherlock stride hurriedly in front, John Watson is half hopping, half limping down the hallway on his stick, Daniel right behind him. Then they are at the door, Sherlock has the key card in the lock, and then they are inside.

  
‘That was too easy,’ the detective says, but he is laughing through his breathlessness. Daniel notices Dr Watson is also in a similarly cheerful mood. Looks like these two men get off on danger then ... He saves that piece of information for later, it’s not useful now, but it might come in handy some time.

  
‘What exactly are we looking for? John Watson asks, looking round the office with curious eyes, ‘looks pretty ordinary and normal in here to me.’

  
It certainly does, it’s obviously the CEO’s office; impressive large wooden furniture, colourful prints on the wall, more computer hardware than you could shake a stick at, a leather executive’s chair at the desk ...

  
Daniel is also looking round too. ‘I would suggest anything unusual or out of place then,’ he offers. Then he spots Sherlock Holmes standing by a smaller desk at the other end of the office, against the back wall. In his long coat and immaculate shirt and pants the tall, thin, man looks as if he is posing for a fashion shoot. He also has a look on his face that would have graced Ba’al when he was at his most smug and imperious.

  
‘Might I suggest this might be a good place to start to look?’ the detective offers and gestures at a roundish, glassy, orange and pulsing object attached to the PC CPU on the desk.

  
‘Ooh!’ says Vala looking pleased, ‘a phase breaker! That’s nice and easy. How kind of our Gou’ald friend to leave us one of those.’  She goes over to take a look, quietly putting her backpack down by the desk, and extracting a keyboard and several multi-socketed plugs.

  
Daniel takes a breath and lets himself relax a little as he leaves Vala and her English detective friend to get on with what they have to get on with.

  
‘So, this is going to be a simple job?’ the other Englishman in the room then says. Daniel realises that John Watson is still standing by him and has turned and is looking at him expectantly, as if he is waiting for information.

  
Dr Jackson had almost forgotten John, poor quiet, ordinary, looking Dr Watson. There is a look of caution in Englishman’s eye. Daniel can see John has been assessing the situation here in this office without fuss or noise, and can read alertness in the ex-soldier’s eyes. There is tenseness in his stance which the American pleased to see too. It’s reassuring that there is someone else there watching everyone’s six here in this country far from home, and SG1, and his usual team.

  
‘Hopefully it will be that simple,’ Daniel replies, and then more urgently, ‘if your friend there doesn’t actually touch anything he shouldn’t. ’ He’s striding over to stop a fascinated detective and extremely polite, but worryingly wandering, British hands causing problems.

  
‘Sherlock, be careful!’ John warns loudly from where he is standing. He doesn’t move from guarding the door though and just telegraphs his worry and irritation in his facial expression.

  
‘Not good, John?’ Sherlock asks, stopping and looking back at his friend.

  
‘No, stop trying to interfere and let these people get on with their work, idiot,’ John says sounding slightly irritated, ‘we are only here to assist, not to take over.’

  
Vala is watching the interplay and taking it all in. ‘I would pay attention to what your friend is saying, handsome,’ she suggests smiling upwards at Sherlock, with more than a hint of a grin in her amusement. ‘That thing is loaded with explosive. One wrong move and the whole building will go up in a satisfying bang.’

  
‘Not so satisfying if you happen to be in the middle of it, I would suggest,’ Sherlock replies, seemingly always the one to have the last word. His body is showing he is politely conceding to her wishes, however, hands behind his back now, safely under his coat. He has taken a step away from the desk, well out of harm’s reach.

  
‘Of course not,’ Vala smiles, seeing his game and being amused, ‘let me just get it turned off and we can see what our friend has left for us on his computer.’

  
The keyboard and multiplugs are attached to the CPU. It’s just a normal Microsoft computer peripheral which Sam Carter has cleverly MacGyvered back at the SGC to interface with Gou’ald/Ancient hybrid technology. With few guesses Vala finds the password (Ba’als are so vain in their choice) and few clicks on the keys and the glowing orange glows no more. She is happily rubbing her hands and pulling up a computer chair to sit down. She looks up at Sherlock.

  
‘Want to join me?’ she asks.

  
‘I’d love to,’ Sherlock says, now actually smiling genuinely. He also pulls up a chair, removes his coat, putting it on the back of the chair before he sits down.

  
‘This is where it gets a little boring,’ Daniel explains to Dr Watson as they watch the two people in front of the computer.

 

John smiles back at him.

  
‘Oh I can do the boring part,’ he says, ‘as long as he,’ he nods in Sherlock’s direction, ‘and we are safe, I can do that with pleasure.’

  
Sherlock and Vala both have their heads close together over the computer screen as Vala quickly types in strings of letters and numbers.

  
‘I’m sure you nearly had it there,’ Sherlock offers, ‘why don’t you try putting it in backwards?’

  
Daniel is not sure if he is being patronising or accommodating here, it’s hard to tell by the tone of his voice. He looks at John.

  
‘He’s being helpful, really,’ John says with a smile, looking amused at the whole procedure, ‘his unhelpful is not very nice at all.’

  
Vala types in another string of number and letters, and then as she does so a column of data starts to scroll upwards on the screen. ‘Yes! You were right,’ she says to the man next to her, ‘well done, and here we go.’ She is sounding pleased.

  
Daniel now hears a deep breath let out next to him and looks back over to John. The quiet man nods at him.

 

‘Ok, I admit the thought of alien technology makes me nervous,’ he says, ‘I was a fan of Dr Who when I was younger, and all the breaking news of the Stargate Programme was fun to watch on the BBC,  but this is well out of that league.’

  
‘It’s OK,’ says Daniel sympathetically, ‘Vala and I may be getting a little bored with it by now, but we’ve watched enough of the uninitiated to understand their response.’

‘Well, just expect me to be a bit overawed for a while,’ John smiles back. 

Daniel is amused, this Englishman’s gentle British irony is growing on him.


	6. An exit-wound caused by a Gou’ald

Standing in the office on the fourth floor or a building in the City of London Dr Jackson can see John Watson is looking around him. Vala and Sherlock Holmes are still engrossed with their computer activities so Daniel makes a mental security sweep himself. He can see John watching him do it. That is one more thing to thank the British ex-forces Captain’s training for.

  
‘Yeah, I get you,’ John says calmly and conversationally, and then nodding in front of him; ‘you see that door at the back there, Daniel? That’s what’s bothering me.’

  
‘Yes,’ says Daniel, also aware of what John has spotted, getting annoyed at himself; that he missed it in the urgency to get access to the computer files in the office.

  
He is slipping, he thinks, or just tired, having not having any down time since being beaten up by the Doci and miscellaneous Ori soldiers on Celestis. Now is not the time to spend bemoaning his lot however; he has a job to do here.  He and his new British companions need to save London from the threat provided by Ba’al, and that is one Gou’ald he is not underestimating.

  
‘I agree, I do not like the look of that door, Dr Watson,’ he has to admit. His experience over the past ten years has told him to trust his hunches.

  
With true British calm in a crisis the ex-British army doctor gives a shrug. ‘I did tell you to call me John,’ he says drily, ‘but I tell you what too; ‘ he says looking at Daniel and then glancing over to where Sherlock and Vala are still happily poking through computer files, ‘you keep a close eye on those two while I go and have a look.’

  
‘Sure,’ Daniel says, nodding, ‘I think I can do that.’  He pleased he has a partner in protecting the less cautious members of their party. While he does trust Vala now in a situation such as this, he is not sure about their odd and eccentric Consulting Detective.

  
‘Right,’ John replies, ‘I’m off, I’ll only be a minute.’ He limps away. Dr Jackson notices that the Englishman has his left hand, the one unencumbered by his cane, in his jacket pocket. He can guess there is very probably a sidearm in there. Daniel also has a zat down the back of his pants, so they are well prepared.

  
John pauses at the doorway and gives a tight smile, and then, having carefully opened the door, and checked inside, walks in. There is only a moment’s gap in time, a beat that Daniel counts in his head, before the man in there is shouting, and loudly.

  
‘Dr Jackson! Sherlock! In here; quickly!’

  
‘ _John!_ ’

  
That is Sherlock’s voice; Daniel looks over to the desk sees the detective move faster than even he would have thought he could move. Only Vala is left by the computer. The Englishman was picking up his coat and through the door in a flash, standing and running in one fluid movement.

  
Daniel now understands a little more about the dynamic between Sherlock and John he thinks, he had underestimated what he thought he was seeing.  
  
‘It’s OK, Daniel,’ Vala says now standing up, her voice sounding quiet after the hubbub, ‘the files are on uplink now, and they can be left to transmit to our contacts on their own.’

  
‘We better get in there then,’ Daniel suggests shaking his head.

  
‘I agree, husband,’ Vala replies and is walking with him.

 

  
  
What the members of SG1 meet when they get into the smaller side-office is a body sprawled out on the floor. John Watson is kneeling beside it and Sherlock Holmes looming over him, hands twitching at his sides. The coat is at a distance, folded carefully on a chair.

  
Daniel realises that, although this may be unfortunate for this victim, he may very well be seeing how these two men function at the crime scenes Mycroft Holmes was explaining they apparently assist at.

  
For a moment he stops where he is, just inside the room, and puts a hand up to keep Vala from going any further. She nods, looks at her husband with a smile that says, _this could be interesting_ , and slipping her arm round his waist stands with him to watch.

  
‘So, how did he die, and how long ago,’ the Consulting Detective is muttering to himself. His gaze is roaming over the poor dead man, eyes piercing in their scrutiny. The focus the Englishman is showing is scary.

  
‘Not long ago,’ John replies touching the corpse’s neck carefully, ‘I know it’s a warm night but this body isn’t even cold.’

  
‘And? Don’t make me repeat myself, John,’ Sherlock almost snaps, his stance is tense, almost vibrating. John takes a deep calming breath and then exhales.

  
‘From the position of the limbs, and the spittle and mucus round the body’s nose and mouth,’ he suggests, pointing these out, but not actually touching the body, ‘make me think he must have had some sort of fit or convulsion. We could check his body for a Medic Alert, see if he’s a known epileptic, but the thing on his neck is what worries me, and that sort of rules the other suggestion out.’

  
‘John?’ Sherlock says, his voice now showing curiosity.

  
Dr Watson looks up at Sherlock and then over at Daniel and Vala, he beckons them over.

  
‘Hi, glad that you've joined us. I am just going on a hunch here,’ he offers looking up at the visitors, ‘and I have only read your General Hammond’s book which had a chapter on the subject ...’ He grasps hold of the body’s shoulder and hip to roll it and then nods to his flatmate to hold it to it won’t flop back.  Sherlock dligently drops beside him to hold it steady.

  
‘Have a look at this and tell me if it’s your area, or whether we should be giving Scotland Yard a call,’ John says stretching the corpse’s head back a bit so its neck is more visible below the collar.

  
Both Daniel and Vala take another step forward, and then see bloody stain, and the tell-tale gaping hole that can mean only one thing.

  
‘Oh dear,’ Vala says in characteristic under-reaction.

  
‘Well done, John,' Daniel sounds both impressed at how fast the Englishman has caught on, but also rather concerned.  ‘I think you’ve just found your first example of an exit wound caused by a Gou’ald,’ he says.

  
Vala immediately steps away from the body and looks round the room. She casually goes over to the door but shuts it firmly and stands with her back to it. 'I'd like to know what made that leave its host so quickly, Daniel,’ she says with serious eyes.

  
‘I’d like to know if it’s still here,’ her husband replies, his eyes signalling for her to look around, his hand behind his back, feeling under his jacket.

  
Sherlock is back on his feet looking thoughtful and putting on his coat. John stands back up too and rubs his hands on his trousers. The two Englishmen look concerned, but not too aware of the danger they are in.

  
‘Is it likely to be here?’ John asks the two visitors curiously.

  
‘Well if they body was still warm the snake can’t have been gone for long, can it, darling?’ Vala suggests, leaning up against the door, arms crossed, smiling at John. He looks as if he has the feeling that he’s just walked on the end of a conversation he’s missed most of. He’ll catch on fast enough though.

  
‘Could it have known we were coming here tonight?’ John continues.

  
‘I don’t think so,’ Vala says, ‘even we didn’t know until your friend’s brother told us where to go and visit.’

  
‘Look, I would suggest you leave and discuss this elsewhere, preferably outside,’ Sherlock says from the other end of the room, sounding annoyed, ‘you’re just wasting time, ’ he offers.

  
John turns, his face showing he is wondering when his flatmate actually walked away from the rest of the group. Daniel is wondering the same thing, civilians are not supposed to be left to wander around alone when there is a Gou’ald on the loose.

.  
‘Good idea,’ John says, and also suddenly realising that his boyfriend has just said. ‘ _Sherlock_?’ he asks.

  
Daniel notices Dr Watson’s tone of voice; the ex-army doctor is also looking in a horrified manner towards the end of the office, his eyes wide.  When the member of SG1 follows John’s gaze he sees the by now familar figure in his dark coat, and a free-standing file cabinet, are both being illuminated by a ray of the evening sun. There is something else there on the top of the file cabinet too.

  
It is about a foot long and has a thin, speckled, gold-scaled body that is flashing in the sunset, topped with stubby wings. A head with a sharp-pointed beak is looking at Sherlock with, too interested, beady red eyes.

  
‘Shit,’ Daniel says rapidly bringing out that Zat he’s had under his jacket. Beside him Vala is hurriedly pulling her concealed weapon out also.

  
‘Christ,’ mutters John, sounding very ill, and then more loudly, ‘get away from that thing, Sherlock.’

  
Despite what he is saying, and seeing his flatmate isn’t moving, John is starting to walk toward the end of the room himself. Daniel wants to go after him and pull the man away, but he daren’t put himself in danger.

  
He is watching the two Englishmen interact and knows he’s seeing something familiar here.  There are shades of a younger version of himself, and Jack O’Neill, arguing over who should put their head into the ancient repository on P3X-439 ...

  
‘I would suggest you actually turn round and leave with our American visitors, John’ Sherlock says calmly, ‘I can stay here and distract this "thing", and you can call in the trained back-up I am assuming my brother has on standby.’

  
‘Jesus,’ John can only mutter to himself. He sounds broken, genuinely broken, but only for a moment.

  
‘Not now, keep your sentiments under control, you idiot,’ Sherlock says, an almost gentle look on his face when he addresses his flatmate. ‘Off you go;’ he shoos at John with his hands smiling, then turns to face the Gou’ald.

  
‘ _Sherlock_!’ John calls again, starting to run this time, but he is too late.

  
Daniel and Vala look on in horror as the snake takes a flying leap and aims straight for the long, lean, elegant neck right in its path. There is a moment as John Watson stands before his friend looking on in horror, then everything happens in a flurry of confusing movement.

_  
...the Gou’ald enters and seats itself with speed and deadly precision ... John steps up to Sherlock whose eyes flash ... the ex-army doctor is savagely grabbed, spun round, and his hands held behind his back..._

  
Oddly enough, that is when John smiles a little and relaxes, despite the fact that there is there is a gun to his head. Sherlock must have had that in his own pocket and the Gou’ald of course knows about that now.

  
‘John,’ Vala says looking concerned at the Englishman’s sudden turn of humour in the face of capture.

  
‘It’s OK,’ he says, with a shrug, ‘look, at least it’s not Moriarty.  Do us a favour and get that back-up Sherlock talked about. If you are quick I can keep him occupied until Mycroft can send in the cavalry.’

  
Daniel and Vala look at each other, they have no idea who the Moriarty is that he is talking about, John looks suicidal in their minds, and they have another problem. Behind Dr Watson, not-Sherlock Holmes is observing the members of SG1 with interest. The look on his face is not that which the Consulting Detective usually wears anymore. It is one which is much more familiar.

  
‘Dr Jackson, Qetesh,’ the Gou’ald says nodding a sarcastic bow to them, but keeping his weapon steadily by his captive’s head. ‘How good to see you again, and how nice of you to provide me with such an impressive new host.’

  
While both the visitors from America have been through this situation more than once, it is still extremely strange to hear Sherlock’s voice, but with Ba’als flanged tones and mannerisms.

  
John glances up, his expression confused.

  
‘Since when did you develop a South African accent?’ he says looking the Gou’ald, who has his boyfriend’s body.

  
‘And you must be John Watson,’ Ba’al says, keeping a hard grip on his captive’s wrists but looking down at him with interest. ‘British army medic, invalided out of Afghanistan after a shoulder wound, devoted flatmate and partner to crime fighter Sherlock Holmes,’ he smiles. ‘I have been following your activities on the news recently, and even your Blog, my friend. It is very tempting to keep my host’s identity for a little while and try out to his way of life. I will be needing a new Lo’tar too ...’ he muses.

  
‘You wouldn’t dare,’ Vala says vehemently from where she is keeping back, well out of range.

  
‘Oh, but my dear, you of all people should know that I would,’ Ba’al replies sweetly, with a wide grin, ‘and having a host, who has a boyfriend who is so loyal to him, would mean I would get such better service than if I used an average slave; wouldn’t it, John?’

  
That last sentence is delivered with a flashing of eyes. John is looking up into Sherlock’s face, not Ba'al's, just for a moment and his boyfriend is looking at him lovingly. That is only for a moment though, before Ba’al laughs and his sneer returns mockingly to his face. John is not amused.

  
‘You can’t fool me with stuff like that, you prat,’ he says tutting and shaking his head, ‘I’ve watched too much Dr Who to be fooled by alien megalomaniacs who try to impersonate the people they take over. You’d only make a mess of trying to be Sherlock, no-one can be as annoying as him, and I’d only try to get my boyfriend back.’ He is looking over at Daniel and Vala, sounding slightly annoyed, ‘can’t you just get on the phone to Mycroft while I keep this idiot talking?’ he asks.

  
‘I don’t have his number,’ Daniel replies, shrugging, ‘sorry, Sherlock was going to give it to me but never got round to it.’

  
‘Twit,’ says John, ‘always leaves people in awkward situations they have to sort out themselves, doesn't he?’


	7. Taking back control

After five minutes standing in an empty office in the City of London, with Sherlock’s gun, in Sherlock’s hand, aimed his head by the Gou’ald inside Sherlock’s head, John Watson is getting a little irritated. This is not how things are supposed to end. He’s only just got Sherlock back from the dead after a long eighteen months of having him missing, and now he has a boyfriend with an alien snake taking possession of him.

 

No, this is not at all how it’s all supposed to end.

 

He can see the American visitors standing at the other end of the room watching him. They still have their guns drawn, so it’s still a stand-off. This is going to have to end soon; John realises he needs to start talking his way out of this.

 

Maybe those many months ago, after everything happened at Barts, he might have been happy for someone to put him out of his misery. Today John is in a different frame of mind though; he is angry. He has had too many close shaves with Sherlock so now it is time to take action.

 

‘You don’t have to keep standing there doing that you know,’ he says to the man behind him, trying to moderate his voice to reasonable. ‘I’m not exactly going to run away when you have my boyfriend as a hostage now, am I?’

 

Ba’al huffs a laugh and then Sherlcock’s changed voice replies sounding amused. ‘That’s an interesting way of putting it,’ the Gou’ald says.

 

‘Well, it’s _one_ way of putting it,’ John says, ‘and, look, can you just let my hands go too?’ he asks slightly pleadingly. ‘They’re starting to hurt, and it’s pulling on my injured shoulder. I’m not going to run away, I promise.’

 

‘Would you try anything stupid, John?’ Ba’al asks, pulling the smaller man back towards him so that he is now, in effect, wrapped in a one armed hug from behind. The gun is lowered, and Sherlock’s face is pressed against the side of his own. This is everything in the world that John wanted for those long, painful months when he was alone. It is all John can do to focus, all that warm bodily contact, with that damn coat of Sherlock’s surrounding him ... He has to focus.

 

‘Of course I won’t do anything daft, you idiot, why would I want to do that?’ he replies fighting against the instinct to just fall back into that embrace.

 

‘Hmm,’ Ba’al says loosening his grip and pulling away so that his captive can turn and look at him. John has to admit the imposing regal look the Gou’ald has put on Sherlock’s face does look rather good there, but he does want his boyfriend back. He’s only just started to get to know him again since he walked back into this life and he would like to continue that process really.

 

‘In other circumstances lesser beings would have been dead for using that sort of language towards me, you know,’ Ba’al tells him smirking. The Gou’ald’s voice is mocking, but there is a tone of interest in there that wasn’t there a moment ago.

 

‘I realise that,’ John replies, knowing he is being bold. He wants to see how far he can push this conversation, though, how far that thing in Sherlock can be baited before it strikes out. ‘Can’t you let me off the once? I am joining in your relationship with Earthlings rather late in the day, after all.’

 

‘Yes, John, I admit you are,’ Ba’al replies with a smile. There is a look in his eye that the Englishman can see quite clearly, and the alien seems to be letting his guard down. ‘Had I met you before now I assure you I would have paid you a lot more attention,’ the Gou’ald says, flattery in his voice, a teasing smile in his eyes. The hairs on the back of John’s neck rise, he certainly has the attention he is seeking now.

 

Out of the corner of his eye Dr Watson can also see movement coming from the other side of the room. A new weapon seems to have come on the scene. From somewhere, and he is not quite sure of this, Vala has produced a metallic and sinuous looking object. She is holding it by her side and Ba’al doesn’t seem to have spotted it yet.

 

‘I don’t believe this,’ John says stepping a little nearer,  cocking his head to one side, walking into Ba’al/Sherlock’s personal space and trying really hard to distract him.  ‘You are NOT trying to flirt with me are you? That is so not good when you have nicked my boyfriend and are intending to use him in your plan for world domination.’

 

John is not sure whether Ba’al is playing with him or whether he really is flirting, but at least he seems to have the hostage-taker’s attention in full.  He has to keep it that way.

 

‘And why shouldn’t I do what I want?’ Ba’al offers his smile widening and putting Sherlock’s hands on his hips. That is wrong, so wrong  ... ‘as a God I can do anything I wish, can I not?’ he says tipping his head to one side mimicking John and considering the smaller man in front of him.

 

John has the Gou’ald exactly where he wants now. He takes a step further forward, smiling easily and then taking a grip on the coat and its owner.

 

‘Not when you are dealing with an Englishman you can’t,’ he says, deciding to use that Aikido throw the American, Stetson, was trying to teach him the day before his unit was blown up by a car bomb in Helmand Province. He’s read about how strong a Gou’ald is, but if he catches this one off guard...

 

‘John!’  Daniel calls as there is a metallic ringing sound from behind him, ‘keep him still so that Vala can get a shot. Keep your head down!’

 

John ducks to one side, thinks of another day, a lifetime ago, when Sherlock called out _Vatican Cameos_ , and hears and feels the discharge of an energy weapon hit his flatmate. Sherlock’s body stumbles against him, and then his boyfriend’s knees buckle and John is lowering him down, holding onto his coat. He lets Sherlock rest against the filing cabinet and then sees his eyes clear a little, and suddenly he is looking more like himself.

 

‘Sherlock?’ John asks shakily dropping down onto his haunches to be at his level.

 

‘It’s me and, yes I’m all right, John,’ his boyfriend says looking up with that slight upturn of his mouth.  His voice is a little hoarse, but it is Sherlock’s again and his gaze is as piercing as ever.  He seems to be even enjoying this a little.

 

John can’t hold back a relieved smile. ‘What’s going on?’ he asks.

 

‘That blast incapacitated the Gou’ald which was controlling my mind,’ Sherlock explains dryly as if this sort of thing happens all the time, ‘now I have control back I can do my best to get rid of it. If you would kindly take a few steps back ...’

 

‘I beg your pardon?’ John says looking totally confused.

 

‘This will not exactly be very pleasant, and I would ideally like you to be well out of range,’ Sherlock says courteous as always, ‘do please do as I say, John.’

 

John sighs, gets up painfully because his healing wound has received some rough treatment today, and takes two steps backwards. A Sherlock continues to look at him, he shakes his head, huffs to himself and takes another step.

 

 ‘Is that enough?’ he asks finally, folding his arms and giving Sherlock a hard look.

 

‘That will do perfectly; thank you, John,’ his flatmate replies, ‘now I must get on, if I wait any longer this thing in my head just might try to regain control.’

 

‘I understand, we don’t want that,’ John replies and holds his breath determined not to let it out until this is all over.

 

He watches as Sherlock gives him a reassuring smile and then shuts his eyes and lies back against the filing cabinet. It’s as if he’s lying on the sofa at Baker Street, as if he’s got some serious thinking work on a very complicated deduction to do and is in need of a nicotine patch.

 

He takes a breath, and then his head tips gently to one side, stretching that long neck of his backwards and baring his throat. The movement reveals the wound were the creature, which is causing all this trouble, first entered. It looks larger now against his skin which seems to have gone a lighter shade than it normally is. It makes John shiver.

 

John watches Sherlock takes several laboured breaths and a look of concentration runs across flatmate’s face. The smaller man is almost tempted to run forward, to hold his boyfriend’s hand and just try and support him through this. He promised not to though, and grits his teeth and stays where he is. He owes Sherlock this courtesy.

 

After all that, that thinking, and a waiting of seconds, but which stretches out for a lifetime for John of course, it is suddenly all over. There is a look of pain crossing Sherlock’s face, a tensing, a strong, full body, shudder, and suddenly there is something screeching and wiggling out of his neck. It shoots messily in John’s direction and he actually takes a couple of further steps before it lands at his feet. He doesn’t hesitate, and puts his foot down on the slimy thing ready to crush it into the carpet.

 

There is movement from the other side of the room. Vala has thrown the long silver energy weapon to Dr Jackson and he’s hurrying forward.

 

‘Hold on ,John!’ Daniel calls, ‘don’t squash it, I have something better.’

 

‘Like what?’ Dr Watson says watching Vala hurrying to Sherlock with a first aid kit and pulling a couple of triangular bandages out. She holds them over the exit wound in his boyfriend’s neck, pressing down while talking quietly to him. He doesn’t seem to have lost consciousness which is good.

 

Daniel is holding out the strange alien weapon to John.

 

‘Try this, it’s a Zat'ni'katel, originally created by the Gou’ald.  We call them Zats for short,’ Dr Jackson says handing it over, ‘they’re easier to manage than a regular gun and the three power settings are useful too.’

 

‘What do I do?’ John replies, finding the most comfortable way to hold the thing. He is surprised that it fits his hand perfectly. He is also wondering if they have different ones for left-handed personnel or whether these are good for both left and right.

 

‘They’re simple to use, just aim and fire,’ Daniel grins. He stands there and takes his glasses off and wipes them on the edge of his shirt. ‘One blast will incapacitate it, two will kill it. I’d rather you didn’t give it three because we want to take the body back with us to the SGC.’

 

John nods takes his foot off the snake-like thing, lets it wiggle a bit helplessly on the ground and then gives it two quick blasts. It lies still with a burn on one side where the energy of the blast hit it.

 

‘Christ, that felt good,’ he says grinning and handing the weapon back. There is nothing like taking revenge on an alien with its own ray gun. Now he is looking up to see if Sherlock is still ok.

 

‘Don’t worry, John,’ Vala says from where she is kneeling next to the taller man, she is smiilng encouragingly. ‘We’ll get him fixed up in a couple of minutes, I promise,' she adds, 'come and keep the pressure on the wound for me will you? I need to get something out of my backpack.’


End file.
